II

He is lying flat on his back, his wide blue eyes staring straight into a clear blue sky, his body cushioned by some blessedly soft surface. What a sky it is…so clear and so blue, never has he known such a perfect hue, never in life. He knows without thinking that no planes have ever flown overhead, no factories have ever tainted its perfection with their acrid black smoke; no, not this sky. It is perfection itself, looking as fresh as though it was gleaming from the mold only seconds before even though countless eons have no doubt passed under its blue expanse.

Yet, what's this he feels, brushing against his face with a touch like silk and a whisper of velvet? He tears his eyes from that breathtaking sky and instead turns his head to the right, looking for the source of that spin-tingling sensation. His eyes fall upon a rose, and the heart beating in his chest seems to still at the sight of it. It is without a doubt the most perfect flower he has ever seen, petals the color of thick rich blood and an elegant, acidic green stalk, encircled by cruel-looking thorns. The vision of this most perfect creation blurs abruptly and he sits bolt upright, raising an alarmed a hand to his startled face, thinking something must be wrong with his eyes; he's going blind…or maybe something worse. His fingers come away wet, and there is something trailing down his cheek. He blinks in surprise as he realizes he's crying, and over the sight of nothing more than a rose. The realization puzzles him, for never in life was he what some would call an emotional fur.

His heart receives a sudden jumpstart, leaping clear of his chest and lodging all the way in the back of his throat. He stares, his streaming eyes wide with wonder and amazement as he sees the field laid out before and all around him. It is a vast field, one whose exact dimensions he can only guess at, as the edges span farther than even the horizon itself. He is reminded fleetingly of the midwestern plains of Nevada or perhaps the badlands of North Dakota, though neither one ever held such an overabundance of beauty.

He is sitting in a field of the richest, most vivacious roses he has ever seen. They fill his whole range of vision, spread out across the cosmic expanse of field like an ocean of blood. His tears flow faster, and he wipes at them absentmindedly, only succeeding in rubbing them deeper into his fur. He knows not why the sight should awaken such feelings of…of what exactly? Bliss? Ecstasy? No. The words don't – no, can't do justice to the emotion coursing through him, not by a hundredth, not be a thousandth. His body seems to thrum in time with some underlying rhythm, inaudible even to ears as sensitive as his own. He breathes a sigh of utmost pleasure, and the air he inhales tastes of some alien odor both sickly sweet and inexplicably blissful. He supposes it is the musk of the roses…and wishes faintly that he knew how to bottle the scent, for such an aroma would be enough to bring anyfur to tears.

He looks down, and discovers that his hand has crawled away from the leg of his faded blue jeans and now holds a single rose stem pinched delicately between his first and second fingers. He wonders dreamily how it would be to pick the rose, to lift it to his face and bury his nose in the scarlet core of its head, drinking that divine odor in with his hypersensitive nose. He is not worried about the thorns, for he knows that they will not prick him, nor even break his skin, for the flower recognizes his right to be here and so offers itself to his inspection. Should a soul who has no business here attempt such an act, the thorns would slice his hands to ribbons, for such is the punishment for one who thinks such a crime can be committed with impunity. He cannot say how he knows this, only that he does, and so he gently pulls the flower from the earth – it comes easily, almost willingly it seems – and holds it before him, sniffing deeply. Its fragrance is beyond my ability to describe and to try and tell you of its flavor would only do it a disservice that I cannot bear to live with. He feels as though his head is suddenly cleared, really cleared for the first time not just in weeks or moths or years but what feels like the first time in his life. He is at peace. For the first time, all the troubles and worries of that imperfect mortal world fade away, and he is utterly content to sit here and let eternity stretch out before him.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

He turns, without feeling any sudden twinge of panic or alarm – he recognizes the voice instantly – and beholds, standing next to him, a creature whose appearance is unparalleled by any mortal standards that attempt to define absolute perfection. Her fur is a uniform French vanilla shade, save for her ears and hands, which bear an obsidian pelt. A long, blue evening dress exposes the aquiline slope of her neck and shoulders, accentuating a stately hourglass figure as well as the ripe slope of her chest. Her wings are majestic and beautifully preened, with long streamlined feathers and an elegant frame. Yet he notices all this only peripherally, for this lady's most striking feature is neither her coat, nor her buxom figure – which would drive even the most modest of furs to sink to his knees in lust-driven awe and beg for even a single chance to bed her – it is her eyes that so enchant and captivate him.

He stares, seeing some profound and unnamable emotion burning in the burnished steel blue of those wild Amazon eyes. They are warrior's eyes…yet smoldering deep within them he can see a love so great that the very sight of it makes not just his heart, but his very soul ache in hopeless adoration.

"The Rose?" he asks, turning again to regard not the single blossom held before him but the surrounding field. "Yes, it's…" he trails off, shaking his head. Words fail him, for nothing he can think of will do justice to the majestic serenity that seems to envelope everything around him. He turns back her, his mouth still hanging open like a fool's, and is suddenly certain she must think him a fool.

His meager fears prove groundless however, for she nods in simple understanding, a heart-melting smile gracing her lovely face. With the elegance of countless queens, she takes a seat before him, her body moving in a single liquid motion that only accentuates the depth of her beauty, letting the great, feathered wings at her back fall to either side. They are unnaturally close…and he suddenly finds himself drowning in her scent…and what a scent it is, like the reek of wild flowers spliced with the tangy, sickly-sweet smell of honey.

His mouth moves.

"…Miss Central?"

Her smile grows and she reaches out and clasps his hands in hers, sending a jolt of utmost pleasure racing through him. "Hello Ashley." No, he decides, she smells more like lilacs than wild flowers.

He follows her example, returning her grip as best he can and smiling easily enough, though he is clearly somewhat puzzled. "You…look familiar, somehow…." His head cocks to one side, eyes narrowing slightly as he looks more closely at her, trying to pinpoint the source of this overpowering sense of déjà vu. "Have we met before, you and I?"

Her smile falters a bit and she glances away, distractly, eyes slightly downcast. Her grip tightens for a fraction of an instant. "…Yes, we have."

"When? And how?"

Her only answer is a shake of the head and another gentle squeeze.

He nods in understanding, though her refusal still saddens him for some reason he cannot place. Doing his best to shake off this impending sense of gloom, he instead turns his gaze to the blood-red field. She is lovely beyond words, yes, but her beauty is as nothing compared to the radiance spilling from this ocean of divine flowers. He thinks if this were Heaven, it would be more than enough to satisfy him for all eternity.

"Am I in Heaven?"

She favors him with a loving, yet slightly sad smile that says she understands his need to ask even though he intuitively knows the answer He chuckles dryly. "No, of course, not…no Pearly Gates."

Those warrior's eyes soften and she relinquishes her grip on his mutilated hands in favor of gently cupping his furry face instead, wiping away the remnants of his tears. "In good time, Ashley; God has seen how faithful you've been and is well pleased…but there is still one more soul in need of your guidance."

He looks at her, his red-rimmed eyes shining with anticipation from the wreck of his now scarred and bloodied face. "I am to be His witness one last time?"

"He has caused you much suffering, yet his torment is greater than your own and though he bears no visible scars, he is in great pain and has suffered much more than many of his creed who came before him. He may try to hide his shame and fear beneath a mask of indifference, and he may look to be more cruel than any you have ever known, but the darkness has yet to fully capture his heart."

He nods. "I understand. I'll do my best." He pauses, considering. "How – "

"You'll know him when you see him."

He nods in simple acceptance. He has complete trust in her…and why should he not? Who alone has come to his aid in this, his greatest hour of need, bearing His message of hope and the promise of His strength and eternal life? Who has been given the power to drive back the hells spawn fiend that has been blackening his mind with terrifying nightmares…ones too horrible to describe? She is gentleness itself and an almost palpable aura of deepest love radiates from her fur. She is so beautiful, fairer than he could've ever imagined. Even if he were still capable of conjuring up his most vivid (and decidedly impure) teenage fantasies, they still would fall under the shadow of her loveliness. She is here, now, with him, in this sweet-smelling field of divine roses and she has wiped away his tears without hesitation, having no eyes for the grime of blood and dirt that coats his fur. If she says he will know, then who is he to doubt her?

"Thank you…for…for saving me." He has begun to weep, great fat tears rolling down his cheeks to soak into his fur, but he doesn't mind shedding them, not here, not in front of her.

She shakes her head; her sad smile returning as she once again goes about the business of mopping up his tears with her healer's hands. "No, Ash; your faith, you love for Him and His for you, that's what saved you and will continue to save you, no matter what temptations Lucifer may try to cloud your mind with. You've done more for yourself by sacrificing so much in His name than I ever could have, even if I'd been blessed with power multiplied a hundred-fold."

He shakes his head. "I'm…I'm not talking about persecution or pain; I'm talking about…him." He says, and gives an involuntary shudder, feeling as though his spine has just turned to ice. "He…he's evil…so evil." He looks at her, his face now horribly open like that of a frightened child who thinks he's seen the twisted countenance of the Boogeyman by starlight. His throat begins constricting horribly and he finds it hard to speak.
"When I try to sleep…fills my head…death…torture…women…." He swallows. "…Children…infants who…can't…can't even walk yet." His tears flow faster and his voice begins to jig up and down on the register, as a voice will when one's vocal cords are so heavily damaged. "There's rape…and m-murder…s-so much killing…and I…I…." He chokes, face twisting in agony.

"I cause it!" His throat hitches and he can no longer speak; he is crying too hard.

His exhausted body crumples in a heap of grief and she takes him in her arms, drawing him close, letting him nuzzle his in his hot, wet, bloody face against her bosom as she folds her wings around him, enveloping him in a cloud of her radiant perfume as he sobs and trembles, shaking like an autumn leaf about to fall. She coos gently to him, telling him all is well, murmuring sweet words of relief in a language that is at times English and then lapses into some archaic tongue that sends a deep calm spreading through his body. After a while his tears begin to slow and he simply lies there, his face buried in the soft down of her coat while she rocks him gently back and forth in her arms, stroking a hand through his mangy, blood-caked fur.

He's standing, poised on the edge of a great and bottomless pit in his mind from which there is no return; madness. Though he has been gifted with unusual skills and an unprecedented strength of body and spirit, a single push is all it will take to send him tumbling down forever. Where the Demon to come to him now and invade his mind again in such a manner as before…it would likely eat him like candy from the inside out, shattering his sanity like fine china. The constant and very real physical and spiritual battles raging on inside his head have taken their toll on him over the years and he has born them without one complaint…but the effects beginning to manifest themselves, for even though his faith is strong, he is still only an imperfect mortal, forever doomed to fall short of Grace. It is only by His grace that his mind has not collapsed under this constant onslaught. Yet, he cannot take credit, for Central has been invaluable on his passage down the Holy Road. He needs her, this lady – this angel, this heavenly guardian – for she gives him that which he has been without for so long….

Hope.

Finally, he can speak

"…Why…?" he asks, his face still buried protectively against her chest. "…Why must I…see these…these…these things?" He sounds revolted. "Did…did I…?" He can't bring himself to finish; the implications are too evil, too black to imagine.

"That is not for me to say…but despair not; all will be made clear when you stand before His throne."

"…You promise…?"

She tucks her head down, gently pressing her chin against the top of his head, cradling him as a mother does her babe. "I do."

For a while, there is nothing. Then, "…I'm tired, Central," he rasps, his throat raw from his earlier attempt to exorcise the demon and lack of water, "…I'm so very tired…."

"I know, Ashley," she says and he can smell the salty aroma of her tears as they slide slowly down her cheeks, "but you can sleep now. Rest easy, brave Messenger."

His eyes widen in horror at the thought, every muscle in his body winding up like piano wires, his innards clenching in what has become an inbred reflex to such a suggestion, for sleep has long since ceased to offer him the peace enjoyed by other, less fortunate souls.

"No…no sleep…can't…nightmares…" he tries to explain, but his stupid throat is making things too difficult. His arms move by themselves, instinctively wrapping around her, hands clutching desperately, his grip made iron in his fear.

"Shh, shh," she coos, stroking a hand through his fur, pulling him into her lap, drowning him in her heavenly musk, "relax…everything will be all right…."

He gives a weak shake of the head, his grip tightening slightly. "…No…I…I can't….can't fight…he's…too strong…."

"You are entering your darkest hour, Ashley, and the demon is a powerful adversary…but you will win, Ash, you will, but to do so you must sleep…."

"…I don't…want you…to go." He lies there shaking, only now he's looking up at her with red, bloodshot eyes beneath which bags lie like violet ink stains and eraser smudges. Should she choose to, she could shatter his mind like crystalline with a single thought. "Stay with me…please…" he begs, tears beginning to stream down his face once more in his desperation. "Don't leave me."

She hugs him to her more fiercely than ever. "I would never forsake you, Ashley, never. I would rather die a thousand deaths than leave you to battle Kane by yourself."

He swallows and there is a dry click in his throat as he once more seeks refuge in her embrace, burying his face against her. His next words are muffled and they spill from his mouth in a voice weak with emotion.

"Central…oh, Central…I…I love you." He knows not whether he refers to either spiritual or physical love; only that it is true beyond all doubt; he loves her with all his heart, in the only one fur can ever love another. She's been with him for so long, through bad faith and countless doubts, and through it all she never left him. She's been there for him countless times, giving him strength and an encouraging word when he'd been forsaken by all others, even his own parents. How can he not love her?

His thoughts are interrupted as she abruptly lowers her head, at the same time sliding the hand not pressing against the back of his head below his chin, lifting his face up to hers. Though it lasts only for a few precious seconds, it is something he will remember for all eternity. Before his frazzled brain has time to react, he feels her lips press against his as she kisses him full on the mouth. His exhausted, terrified-child's eyes first widen in shock, and then slowly slip closed as he relishes the experience.

She is warm and soft against his cracked, dry lips and the air she expels into his lungs make his head swim. Her taste is hot and wet, rich like the nectar of some exotic flower. He melts into her arms, his hands slowly relinquishing their death grip on her, as the comforting heat of her breath seems to flow down his throat and spread throughout his body, slowly turning his adrenaline-hardened muscles to jelly and filling his mind with soft white light. Finally, she breaks the kiss, looking down at him with eyes from which shines a love so great it dwarfs his own.

"The Lord will give you strength when you least expect it…and so will I." His heart cries out in protest as he sees a tear or two leak from her eyes, and he somehow finds the strength to lift a trembling left hand and wipe them away as she did for him.

"No…please...don't cry…not for me…" Fresh blood begins to trickle from the corners of his mouth as he tries to smile. Powerful she may be, but even her divine gift cannot completely reverse the damage done by his tormentors.

"God has blessed me…beyond measure…and there are others…who are…far more deserving…of your compassion…than the likes…of this wretch…." His voice – which has been somewhat restored to its normal slightly rolling tone that carries with it the barest touch of some unidentifiable accent – wavers not from fear or pain now, but from a rapidly descending curtain of exhaustion.

She smiles and repositions their bodies to allow him to nestle more comfortably against her, his head lying against her chest, her arms and wings forming a protective blanket around him once more. "I cry for all those I see suffering in His name and He cries as well." She gently clasps the trembling hand at her cheek and, bringing it to her mouth, brushes her lips against the two bloody stumps that testify to his talented artistic fingers that once served there.

"Fair enough…for I know…you weep…more for joy…than for sorrow."

A beat.

"Will you…make me…a p…?" He is interrupted as a violent bout of coughing sprays a fine mist of blood from between his lips, sprinkling the silken feathers of her left wing slightly. "A…promise?" His eyes begin to close, but he struggles to keep sleep at bay for now. Not because he fears what dreams or visions may come – for he now knows that no evil can touch him, not in this place, not while he lies in the watchful arms of his angel – but because he has this one last bit of business to attend to.

The other hand runs along his dirtied cheek with a touch like velvet, sending a wave of pleasure rippling through him. "What would you have me do, Ashley?" Voice so soft he can barely hear it, but ah God it's sweet.

"I…could you…take me…when…?" Exhaustion overcomes him and he trials off, his eyes slipping closed. He sleeps…but not before receiving her last gift to him.

"Yes." Her lips brush against his brow and he hears her murmured reply in his ear as he finally lets the darkness take him deep into its recesses where dreams of death and destruction trouble him no more.

Author's Note:
Hmm, well, there you have it. I'm still a bit worried that the dialogue is too choppy and Central still doesn't seem right to me for some reason...but oh well; I've done the best I can do for now.